


all that you love shall be carried away

by paperdragon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: It is eighteen months after 15 August 1973 that the United States of America is boycotted, bombed, financially cut-off and economically withered before it is dismembered.(or: gilbert-not-prussia finds alfred-not-america. not anymore.)





	all that you love shall be carried away

It is eighteen months after 15 August 1973 that the United States of America is boycotted, bombed, financially cut-off and economically withered before it is dismembered.

There is a council that comes to this decision, they call it the United World Council, and there is a vote. Britain steadfastly votes no, after a harrowing speech on ethics fails to motivate anyone into action. France and Canada are silent in their own negatives, but silent all the same. The vote gathers, _such a strong country already. Lost against Vietnam, but the boy will return and he’ll be stronger. He may look stupid, but he’s smarter than all of us,_ and by the end of it, the fear is enough to succumb to.

America sits in his home, numb. He knows what will happen and wonders, if this is what Prussia felt like all these years ago. If he sat down just like this, and didn’t feel anything. It is the first time in a very long time that he has wondered anything about Prussia.

The vote gathers, and the majority says, _yes._

England’s hands shake. Canada seems more visible than he has in years.

Russia smiles.

.

After it is all done, there is a draft resolution over people from the now empty country. Land distribution and what not. Alfred has screamed himself raw over his heart burning in his chest, his body thumping in pain like one giant cry of his people.

In the end, Alfred F. Jones is carried as a refugee to England. He sees Arthur one more time, on television in the very end, in an announcement announcing the success of the UWC. Alfred thinks he looks sad, but he also thinks it’s his imagination. With the little money he can find, he goes to France, gets a job with the rest of the American citizens. They run shops, people with degrees working at supermarkets, speaking shitty French.

Alfred f. Jones finds himself sitting at benches alone, more and more. He gets off from his job and goes anywhere else and just sits there for hours until its night and he blinks out of the daze he’s in and goes back to the shitty apartment he shares with three other people. 

 He catches himself calling himself America, and takes to repeating his full human name in the mirror, once in the morning, once at night. ALFRED F. JONES.

He thinks he’ll never forget it.

.

A few years pass. Three or four, maybe five. He hasn’t really been counting. Hasn’t really been doing anything. The only changes he’s made is renting an apartment for himself near the river and getting a job at the new supermart that just opened, the people he lived with sorta just – he doesn’t remember. He never even noticed.

He wonders if anyone misses him.

.

Gilbert finds him in the strangest of ways, in the most mundane of ways. He enters the store Alfred works at looking hung over to hell, grabs a few beers, and pack of 6 eggs and a carton of milk before trudging over to the counter and shoving some change out.

Alfred realizes he hasn’t quite breathed in some time, and as he exhales he decides he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to see anyone he knew. Whatever this is, it is his life now. These past five years have been a reprieve, a strange sort of freedom, the calm pool. He doesn’t want anyone coming and making ripples.  

He doesn’t know what he expects when Gilbert looks up at him, but he hopes it is on his face. Hopes it says something he isn’t sure he understands.

But Gilbert just says, ’I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to give me some change back, man.’

Alfred doesn’t know what he wanted, or what he expected. But it wasn’t this.

He puts the things into a paper bag ( _paper bags, he remembers the big deal he had back then about recycling and plastic ruining the environment and -_ ) and gets the change ( _shiny, bright coins, lady liberty and George Washington on crisp notes -_ ) on autopilot.

He blinks away the memories. ‘Thank you for coming to Engro.’

Gilbert- Prussia-Gilbert nods, grabbing his things, ‘Yeah, yeah, thanks. See you around.’

Alfred wants to pack and leave and never go near another person again. Instead he repeats the farewell in French.

.

Alfred is sure he’ll never see the albino again. After all, from what he remembers, didn’t he hang out with Austria and Hungary and- ( _and isn’t he just angry that he’s Alfred now and they’re still -_ ) and he decides he doesn’t care.

He follows the routine he has set so well. Works from nine to three for four days and three to ten at night on the other three and then comes home and watches television. Goes to a park. Comes home and drinks cheap beer he doesn’t like. He writes a daily column for an online English magazine and gets some money out of that to cover groceries.

He sleeps.

He sleeps and tries not to wake up.

-

He sees Prussia again, five days later. He walks in at about three, when Alfred’s waiting for the new Greek girl they’ve hired to come for her shift. She’s blonde and tanned and Alfred finds himself thanking God that her eyes are brown and not blue because he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for that. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be.

It’s the same things, beer, milk and eggs, with an addition of a protein shake and a chocolate bar.

Alfred counts it, wraps it and hands the change over.

‘Thanks, America,’ Prussia says and Alfred grips the hand taking the change.

Gilbert looks at him in something akin to surprise and Alfred is shocked to note that he’s squeezing the other man’s hand, tight enough to bruise. Anger the likes he never imagined he had is sizzling, burning him from the inside and all Alfred wants is to make the world burn with it, to spew acid until everything is gone and then more, because it’s not enough, when he says, ‘It’s Alfred. Not America. I’m Alfred Franklin Jones. That’s all I am.’

They stare at each other for a moment, red into blue and blue into red before Alfred lets go of the other’s hand. He notices a reddish mark blooming on the Prussian’s pale wrist, and feels the strange need to say sorry.

He can’t believe Prussia can be bruised.

But then again, he thinks, scoffing out a French farewell as he watches Gilbert stalk out with the things and the change, so can he.

.

When Alfred sleeps that night, he dreams of 1778, those days he spent in Forge Valley with men who made a bond, with that rag-tag militia that died for him and got him independence, and he remembers Von Steuben, remembers Prussia with that glaring vividness, the full uniform and the cocky-brazen attitude, that smug aura-

When he wakes up, he breathes a few times.

And remembers Prussia at the few world meetings he’d come to after 1947 -put aside, laughed at, the comic relief, and for a minute, with his heart burning in the same way as his eyes, he thinks he’s oh so glad he ran away from all that.  He’d been a world power for barely thirty years. Prussia had been for centuries.

He doesn’t think he could have born it, that fall from power.

He thinks he still can’t.

.

‘Hey, Alfred,’ Prussia-Gilbert calls out. Alfred can’t decide what to call him, doesn’t know if he still lives with his brother – but that isn’t possible because they’re in France, and Gilbert’s in a tight tank top and pajamas, which means he’s obviously living here for a while – but Alfred doesn’t want to think about any of that.

‘Hey,’ Alfred calls out. It’s awkward on what to talk to someone you fought with a few days ago. Was it a fight? What was it? Alfred wants to go home.

‘So, how’s business doing?’ Gilbert calls out from the far aisle. It’s Thursday, night shift. It’s almost ten and the store is deserted. Clara was here somewhere, but is likely getting high in the storage unit out back.

Alfred doesn’t want this. He’s tired, he so, so tired. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Doesn’t look it,’ Gilbert half-yells. ‘Don’t take it too hard, it’s France. People are too busy sniffing their snails and sucking each other’s faces to do something as mundane as late-night shopping.’

He doesn’t answer. Rearranges the little packets near the cash register. Why is Pruss- Gilbert doing this? Why?

When Gilbert finally shows up at register, he’s got a bottle of the second most cheap wine they keep, more beer, bread, chocolate and two protein shake plastic bottles.       

‘Date night,’ Gilbert says, most likely about the wine, but Alfred is counting down until a semblance of his past will leave and he can stop existing again. He wants to be a ghost, a ghost that haunts the corners, the one ignored by everyone.

When he’s done with the whole thing, Gilbert grabs the bag and starts to head out before turning again.

‘Hey, almost forgot,’ he says, fishing through the bag, grabbing a protein shake and throwing it at Alfred.  Alfred catches when it thumps against his chest. ‘Have that, trust me. Coming from the guy who lives on beer and eggs otherwise, you need it. Anyways, see you around.’

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

Alfred lets it sit until he’s too thirsty to stop himself. He gulps it down and refuses to think about it.

.

That night Alfred is kept up by the slant of Gilbert’s hair and memories of 1778. He remembers nights spent buried under too-thin blankets, throat too swollen to swallow anything, his people aching from the inside.  Remembers torture-like drills, remembers Prussia beating him down and telling him to get up again. And Alfred did, every time he fell, just like Gilbert did.

 _Never saw this coming, did you,_ he thinks, before he downs his pills and tries for sleep he knows he won’t get.

He keeps remembering things the way you would memories, remembers Washington and the sad state of his army, the fear, the outrage, the anger, the determination, remembers silly things like his glasses and Jefferson, and the first time he had his own currency, and the first time his army performed a military exercise in complete synchronization.

Remembers the pride, the pride he saw in Gilbert and then the pride he saw in himself every time he looked in the mirror.

_Was that our downfall? Was that our fault? Was it so deserving of what we were served with?_

Alfred finally passes out after a few hours, and he considers himself blessed when he doesn’t dream.     

.

The next time Gilbert comes in, it’s in the afternoon, and he’s wearing an old t-shirt and jeans and is covered in grease. He gets a few candy bars and some juice, another protein shake.

‘If you’re getting that for me, you shouldn’t bother,’ Alfred says as he’s putting it all in.

Gilbert snorts, ‘You’re not that special to me, believe it or not.’

Alfred doesn’t say anything, just gives his change back.

Gilbert looks at him, pocketing the change. ‘It gets easier, you know. If you let it.’ 

‘How would you know?’ Alfred spits out, acid spewing out, unexpected. ‘You don’t know what I’m going through, you don’t - ’

He stops at the look on Gilbert’s face. He can’t name it, but it hits him in a way that stops him from breathing.

‘Right,’ Gilbert says, ‘Right. I wouldn’t know, fucking would I now?’

‘Prussia, I -’ Alfred starts, but Gilbert just raises a hand to stop him.

 ‘I’m Gilbert, now. Just like you’re Alfred,’ Gilbert says. ‘If only you’d get your head out of your ass to see it isn’t that bad.’

And then he’s gone, leaving Alfred with this strange, strangling guilt. For a second, Alfred entertains a thought about going after him, to apologize. But it’s just a second, and it passes as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t understand, Gilbert isn’t _just_ Gilbert. He’s still _him,_ smart and strong and he still looks the same, if a bit older and – _oh, God._ Crushing realization is horrifying, the only blessing is the numbness that slips in just as quick.

.

He doesn’t see Gilbert for two weeks after that. Being human has taught him the essence of time, and two weeks cut by in a way that makes him want to apologize; but Alfred hasn’t apologized in his life – and he still wouldn’t. Not directly, at least.

When Gilbert finally does come in, it’s on an afternoon shift, about ten minutes before Alfred closes up. Alfred tries to start talking, but the years of silence have taken their toll on him, and he’s rather dead on his feet in starting or holding conversations. Gilbert seems like stone, he has precise movements, this iron-grip control that Alfred has envied since the first time he saw him.

When he gets his things and comes to counter, he’s resolute in the eye-to-eye conversation he’s having with Alfred. Alfred doesn’t look away, for once. There’s a moment, and Alfred finds himself thinking, _So they’re actually maroon,_ before Gilbert picks his stuff up, starts walking.

He’s not sure what’s just happened, but when Gilbert stops, turns around and says, ‘I work at a garage a few blocks away. This old guy bought this beat up camaro, wants me to fix some shit. You want to come?’

Alfred says yes.

.

Gilbert sticks around for the ten minutes it takes for Alfred to close up, roaming around the mostly deserted store. Alfred wonders how he sees things now; everything’s lost its magic. Alfred can no longer see in color, the world has ceased to become a cesspool of grey monotony.

It’s the most awkward trip of his life, and Alfred takes to staring at strangers as they walk by. No one notices him, everybody’s the same, victims of this dispassionate passion, this urge to act like you’re giving when you’re just taking. He never understood what Matthew had meant when he’d said he was invisible, no one sees you, no one wants to, but you can see everyone. It’s like drowning, only everyone else around you is breathing.

When they get there, Alfred isn’t sure what he was expecting.  He wasn’t expecting a small, messy space filled with tools lying here and there, two old cars in corner, and what he thinks is the Camaro Gilbert reeled him in here with. He never imagined this, never imagined this is what Prussia did when he wasn’t stuck to the hips with his brother, or Austria, or Hungary-

‘You want something to eat? You look like a ghost,’ Gilbert says, going through the bag Alfred wrapped his things in not fifteen minutes ago, before coming up with a packet of chips and some licorice.  He throws the packet at Alfred, and Alfred, being unused to catching anything, much less anything being thrown at him, lets it hit him square in the chest and fall to the ground before he picks it up. ‘You packed it yourself, man. It’s not poisoned.’

When he speaks, it’s to ask, ‘Licorice, really?’

Gilbert shrugs, a small twitch at his lips. ‘Eh. It’s comfort food. Might as well, it’s not like I’ve got people at home to worry about.’

The way he says it, makes Alfred think it’s okay if he doesn’t either.

The work on the Camaro basically consists of a paint job and a tire change. As they’re scraping the old paint off the car and shoving chips and licorice into their mouths in a silence that doesn’t seem stifling, Alfred realizes with a start that this is the first time in five years that he’s even shared company with someone.  He’s so startled his hand stops its previously-constant movements and it makes Gilbert look at him.

When Gilbert asks him what happened, he tells him as much.

‘Huh, I feel you. After the whole thing in 1947 and the reunification bullshit, I left for some time. Went to Spain, did the whole broody thing you’re doing. Three years in, I was working at some shit bar, sleeping on the apartment on top, and this one day, this chick walks in and sets me straight,’ Gilbert says.

 It’s the most he’s heard out of Gilbert in decades. But then again, he thinks, with guilt chewing at him, he never talked to Gilbert much after the whole independence thing.

He regrets that now. He regrets a lot of things.

‘I don’t even know her name, she never told. All she did was tell me to get over my shit issues and live the little life I had left,’ Gilbert continues. ‘So I did, West didn’t really need me, I just hung out for whatever, but. Whatever life I’ve got left, I’ve been living it in the most mediocre, normal way I possibly can. And it isn’t half bad. ’

Alfred isn’t going to say anything, but his words just fall out of his mouth, astounding him with the sheer intensity of them. His eyes are burning, sudden and his mouth is working as he says, ‘I’m sorry- Jesus Christ I’m so sorry, Gilbert, I didn’t know, Jesus, I’m sorry – Arthur told me that day, you know, the day we all sat down to – in 1947 – and, and he said, ‘don’t worry about it, old chap. It’s nothing personal, it’s just good business’ – and that’s all I was too, Jesus, just good business, I’m so sorry, Gil-’

Gilbert yells out a shut up. Alfred falls silent, but his brain is working in a way it hasn’t in these last few days. He’s screaming on the inside, screaming and screaming, and he realizes he’s been screaming for a very long time, it’s only now that his vocal cords have caught up with his mind. It takes him a second to realize his nails are biting into his palms, his voice is hoarse from not the volume of his speech, but the passion instilled inside each word.

‘I don’t want your apologies. Trust me, it doesn’t make a difference. I would’ve done the same, for fuck’s sake. That British piece of shit was right about something after all; but here’s the catch. The way we are now, it’s a freedom you can’t experience as a nation. It’s all just personal, no business anywhere,’ Gilbert says. He throws the empty wrapper in the direction of the dustbin. ‘Now, shut up and start scraping. Sure, we’ve got all day, but. I wanna have pizza after.’

.

Familiarity is the cause of all friendships. It turns into a habit, as awkward as it is the first time they sit on Gilbert’s shitty couch and eat lukewarm pizza because Gilbert was adamant that they finish scraping the whole thing or they didn’t deserve it.

It goes like this: every Tuesday and Thursday Gilbert comes to the store like clockwork, and drags Alfred out. They go back to Gilbert’s place; a small, _too_ small apartment that mainly consists of a beaten down couch, a television and a bedroom that seems to be locked constantly. The only additions to that is the occasional tool Gilbert leaves on the marble ledge of the kitchen sink and sends Alfred to get.

After they’re done with whatever shit excuse of a car Gilbert has been told to ‘fix just enough to make it move’, they watch crap French opera’s they don’t really get and eat pizza.

.

There are days when Alfred still forgets things, and ends up sitting in corners for too long, forgets when the sun sets, forgets to leave. Only now he has someone who drags him away, who shows up at his place whenever he gets free.

The first time Alfred brings Gilbert over to the piece of shit apartment he considers a place to live, Gilbert throws himself on the bed that’s belonged to Alfred for the past five years, tells him to get him licorice, and goes to sleep before Alfred gets it for him.

When he wakes up, all Gilbert says is, ‘Your place is a piece of shit. But I can’t talk, cause so is mine.’

Alfred doesn’t know he’s smiling until Gilbert looks surprised and says, ‘Who knew all it would take to make you smile again was insulting your house.’

‘You just said yours is too,’ Alfred says.

‘Less so than yours, asshole,’ Gilbert tells him. ‘We need to get you a TV. God, how do you live.’

.

Its scarily comfortable, this decay of theirs. Each day passes in the same routine, and it is more freedom than Alfred has known in years.

One day, Gilbert drags him out to a bar, and they drink too much. Gilbert disappears after a while, with a wink and a nudge, leaving Alfred very drunk and very confused. He doesn’t care about much of anything. It’s been far too long since he’s had a drink, but he’s glad he had some today. He feels light, he feels like he’s floating away from the world.

He’s sitting there on his stool, forgotten and lonely, but not unhappy, and there’s no loud, obnoxious music to use as an excuse to not hearing when a brunette taps him on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ he asks.

‘Too drunk to hear me or am I just that uninteresting?’ she asks back.

Alfred says, ‘Everyone’s uninteresting, and I’m too drunk to care.’

She laughs, surprisingly. ‘Well, looks like you’re too gone to even give yourself a proper pity party. I’ll do that for both of us, then.’

She has short hair, curling like she just got out of the shower when she decided to come here, and she speaks in fluent English. She’s one of his. One of the people still considering themselves American, one of the people keeping him alive.

‘What made you come here?’ he asks her.

‘My shit fiancé hit me today. Well, ex, now,’ She says, downing a shot. ‘And I realized I might be a shitty refugee in a shitty country, with a shitty job, I don’t need an abusive shit fiancé. So. Here I am.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says. He’s forgotten how this works. But, this was something people said, right?

She laughs again. She has a nice laugh. It reminds Alfred of Marilyn’s laugh. It hurts as much as it feels good. ‘Not very subtle, are you. Let’s go, big guy.’

Big guy. He used to call Ivan that, in the few good moments they had together, after the Cold War thing. It was supposed to be a joke, an insult, both. He blinks away the sting. Maybe what they did to him was both too. 

They go to her apartment. Alfred has forgotten how they went about, but there’s something about muscle memory that has stayed, and after they get their clothes off, Alfred finds himself slowing down. He wants to discover it all again, he realizes. He wants the time to go through life slowly.

So they’re slow. She whispers jokes in his ear, laughs breathlessly as she sits in his lap and he pulls her down slowly, and he finds himself laughing back, just as breathless. Her eyes flash green in her yellow bulb light, and yet it doesn’t remind him of countries. Reminds him of Arthur, a little, but it’s a happy remembrance. Back when Arthur still smiled.

She gets tired of that position, and turns them about. He’s on top now, and he notices the bruise on her side. She shrugs when she notices him looking. ‘Focus on the good things, man.’

He pushes in, hard. She gasps, her breath stuck before she smiles and joins in. ‘Not a lot of good things to focus on.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she tells him, rotating her hips. She’s wet enough for the slide to be more than pleasurable. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s the truth,’ he says. There’s a thin sheen of tears in his eyes, but he’s not sure why. He doesn’t feel sad, or angry. He feels kind of strange. The pleasure builds, thick and viscous through him like a slow song building up to it’s crescendo. His hair is too long, and it falls on to her forehead on his next thrust.

She brushes it away, and pulls his forehead to hers. ‘Maybe for you. But we all have different truths.’

They don’t kiss, but he speeds up, and she starts making those little _ah-ah-ah_ sounds. He comes a moment before her, and it hits him in the face, expected, but for far too long. She follows, closes her eyes for a minute. They stay there, silent and breathing, him on top.

He abruptly places his hands on both sides of her abdomen; one on the bruise and one on clear skin, and her eyes fly open. A laugh escapes her.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she warns. She’s still catching her breath.

He digs his fingers into her side, and she laughs, laughs and laughs; and Alfred doesn’t stop until she replies in the same manner, tackling him down and then he’s laughing. He finds himself remembering the last thing before he sleeps to be their breathless laughter.

She makes him breakfast the next day. They’re both hung over, him far more than her. But she has French toast, and coffee the way he likes it, and he finds himself asking, ‘What’s your name?’

She smiles at him, ‘Kayla. You?’

‘Alfred Jones,’ he replies, and it doesn’t feel like a lie, for the first time.

He stands up. He’ll never see her again. The loneliness in his small apartment will be overpowering. She has that same look in her eyes, the one where your lips smile and so do you, but then the door closes and you look around the same place you’ve been in for years and you sigh, and you put on some music, or leave the television on, or sing with your horrible voice that can’t ever hit the high notes- anything to keep the overbearing silence away.

But he thinks they’ve helped each other in some way. They’ve helped alleviate each other’s loneliness, somehow, somewhat. Its not enough forever, but it is enough for now. Its enough for this moment and Alfred tries to tell her that. Squeezes her hand, smiles a bit wider. It feels strange, smiling like that – It feels like coming to back to your cabin in the woods after a bad winter, feeling like nothing’s how you left it, like everything’s changed. Feels like checking for a break in, dragging your things in. Turning on the light, running the pipes until hot water shows up. Everything works just fine. Things click into place.

‘See you around,’ he says.

‘Bye, bye, Rocket man,’ she smiles.     

They say goodbye; look at each other for the last time. Nothing is as eloquent as nothing.

When he goes to his job, Gilbert finds him again; and laughs, bright-eyed. ‘Looks like getting you laid worked. You’re smiling again.’

‘That’s not why I’m smiling, asshole,’ Alfred says. He can’t seem to stop.

‘Come on, loser. We’re going car-fixing,’ Gilbert says, dragging him away.

It turns to habit, as things often do. He and Gilbert are close, very close. Sometimes Alfred wonders if this entirety wasn’t so bad. He’s getting better. The one constant in his life is Gilbert, and Alfred wonders when things faded away, but this one white haired son-of-a-bitch became an actual friend. 

But Alfred has forgotten, has forgotten that awful, awful feeling that comes with the complete and utter devotion of one’s time to a single human being – forgotten more so because he hasn’t been in the complete company of someone since Arthur.

And what makes him realize this is the one Thursday when Gilbert doesn’t show up at all.

It’s become so scarily routine, that Alfred finds himself feeling that god-awful shock he used to reserve for declarations of war and stock-market failures. He doesn’t know what to do; he calls up Gilbert’s hose phone from the payphone at his workplace, and it rings away. Alfred feels scared. He feels alone, and small, and so, so afraid, because he’d forgotten this under the easy smiles from Gilbert. He feels so small, so easily forgettable, so _desperate_.

Its reminds him of being small, back when he was barely a child, and Arthur was never there, and Alfred only heard his voice echo in the large empty house, and smiled in the mirror for practice until he’d return. And when Arthur did return, with gifts and his majestic outlook, Alfred would devote everything to him; his laughter, his life, his money, his people. And Arthur would take, and take, and smile, and leave – and Alfred would go back to being a shadow of himself, only purpose in life to wait for a man who didn’t really understand the concept of time – so alone, so scared, so terrified –

He waits for two days. He hasn’t ever sought out Gilbert of his own accord, and he still finds himself hesitant. But on Saturday morning, Alfred walks over to Gilbert’s place.

The garage is open, and Gilbert is slaving away, scraping paint off an old Pinto like it’s the only thing he knows how. He looks dead tired, and the dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced than usual. He doesn’t notice Alfred standing there until Alfred coughs, loudly.

‘Oh, hey buddy,’ Gilbert offers. He reaches up and rubs a hand on his neck, and smiles a little.

‘You weren’t there,’ Alfred says. He can’t quite keep the panic out of his voice, hysteria laced in to the very corners of his speech. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, just fine,’ Gilbert says, ‘Sorry about that. But this job kind of came in last minute, and the pay was great – only, I need to finish it off by day after and then Feliciano was over yesterday, and you know how he gets, you can’t get anything done.’

‘How’s it going with you, though?’ Gilbert asks. ‘Did you meet that girl again?’

Alfred feels shell-shocked, like he did after the war. He remembers himself as a child again, remembers an occasion where Arthur came to his land, lived there for a week and never visited Alfred. Alfred has found him, in a thrown together bar in town, drinking with his captains. He remembers the hysteria, the betrayal, the anger; he remembers the heart break. He remembers that as the moment he gave up on Arthur, the moment all that resentment, all that rage, all that hate came boiling up and Alfred was burning up, burning up, white, hot and -

 And that’s where the disgust starts rolling in. It hits him slowly, and suddenly he can’t breathe. He hates Gilbert, _hates_ him, hates everything and everyone and especially _himself_ , for being like this, for trusting like this, for doing this to himself, for letting Gilbert do this to him –

‘No,’ Alfred says. He can’t say anymore. That one monosyllabic word is a stutter amidst his hummingbird heartbeat. He can’t hear himself think. His hands are shaking. His voice is the hoarse whisper between a scream. His mind feels shattered beyond repair and all Alfred can feel is anger. ‘No,’ he says, again, barely there.

‘Alfred, what -’ Gilbert starts, but Alfred isn’t in the mood for any of it.

He turns, sharply, and walks away. He runs, actually, all the way back to his small, shitty apartment, and he sits on his bed and he screams, and screams; wonders when he’ll die; he’s so tired. Alfred is so, so _tired,_ of it all. He wants that old sky back, he wants his home back, he wants the pedestal and the glory, and the perfection, and the beauty, he wants his house, and Tony, and his aliens, and his Cary Grant DVD collection. He wants the innocence, and the table talks, and the army marches and his old glasses.

It’s too much. The desperation and disgust war with each other and Alfred can’t move. The sheer _hurt_ he felt when he saw Gilbert talking – _busy, Feliciano, couldn’t –_ kills him. This is why he wanted to be alone. This is why he was alone, isolated, unhurt. His eyes burn, but the tears don’t come.

Alfred closes his eyes, remembers blue skies. _Never again._

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter of two. this idea came to me a pretty long time ago, about six months back and I started writing it, then left it, then tampered with it a little for the next few months. finally finished off this much and decided to throw it to the sharks. let me know what you guys think.  
> and as always, thank you for reading.


End file.
